


The Ups and Downs

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: Historical Farm (UK TV)
Genre: Edwardian Farm, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Multi, it's all okay in the end tho, mild religious guilt/homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 11:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16095116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: “Well, you’re more of a filthy farmer than saucy sailor and you’ve no silver in your pockets, love, so we’ll have to give you a good scrub,” Ruth says firmly.Peter half-chokes, startled. “You’re not - you’re not going to wash me,” he says firmly.





	The Ups and Downs

It’s been decided that they should go to church this Sunday. Get a few shots of them all, in full Edwardian gear, singing in the Methodist chapel with the locals to point out that rural Edwardians were, by and large, good Christians who went to church _every_ Sunday, not just on high days and holidays. Peter doesn’t mind it - it’s nice to be in the aged chapel, hearing the voices bound and resound from the vaulted ceiling, and the locals like to have the old place up and worshipping again, even if only on the odd Sunday afternoon for televisual reasons. It’s fascinating, too, to chat with the older residents after the service and hear about Morwellham when they were young and still market gardening, still Methodists, still rural Devon folk through and through. Ruth and Alex love it too, he knows; they’ve that same hunger for stories, for history that you can reach out and touch, for what real people did and not just kings and popes and generals.

So his trepidation, standing warily in the empty farmyard on Sunday morning, poised on the balls of his feet to flee, is not due to his general ambivalence towards organised religion. It’s due in its entirety to Ruth, hands on her hips, a glint in her eye and a small, dare he say evil? smile playing about her pretty mouth, and Alex behind her, beaming and fairly bouncing on his toes with eagerness to aid Ruth in whatever mischievous scheme she’s conjured up with that brilliant brain of hers.

“What,” he says, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“You cannot go to church looking like that,” Ruth says firmly, delighted amusement edging into her tone.

Peter looks down at himself. Yes, the knees of his trousers are a bit worn, but he’s not had time for that, and he sewed up (admittedly quite badly) the rip running almost the length of his jacket - his shoes are muddy, but not holey, and he’s even darned his socks (really, really badly). He looks back up at the pair of them and shrugs. “I’m not that bad,” he objects mildly.

Alex laughs. “Peter, I barely remember those halcyon days when your shirt was white, rather than _brown._ Your trousers are held up with rope. You are a _state_.”

Peter tugs at his shirt collar, squinting against the hot August sun that wreaths Ruth and Alex in a hazy golden corona, and shrugs. “Your hair’s a bit of a nightmare, too,” Ruth adds thoughtfully. “Could use a shave, smarten you up a bit.”

“Oh, thanks,” Peter says, feeling decidedly picked on now. “It’s hard to shave with a cut-throat razor and a broken finger,” he reminds them, showing off the less-than historically accurate splint and bandage wrapped around his index finger. “And I’m not supposed to get it wet.”

“You are still supposed to wash,” Alex points out with a grin that’s made Peter want to throw things at him or kiss him or maybe both since their third year at uni.

Ruth laughs at the face Peter is presumably making and reaches out to him. As ever, he is helpless but to gravitate to her, until she can brush the shoulders of his jacket with her tiny, firm hands. “You are ragged, love, and you’re dirty, love,” she sings, voice light on the breeze, “and your clothes smell much of - well, not tar,” she says, breaking off and making Peter blink, sway back, wake up and stop falling quite so obviously in love.

“Dung,” Alex adds helpfully, and Peter grins despite himself.

“And your clothes smell much of shit,” he parodies, and Alex snorts inelegantly which makes Ruth’s giggles turn into a full-on laugh, head tipped back so that her hair shines copper in the sunlight.

“Well, you’re more of a filthy farmer than saucy sailor and you’ve no silver in your pockets, love, so we’ll have to give you a good scrub,” Ruth says firmly.

Peter half-chokes, startled. “You’re not - you’re not going to wash me,” he says firmly.

“Can you do it yourself?” Alex asks sensibly, but with that irritating _I know what’s going to happen and I think it will be funny_ glint in his eye and his smile that Peter’s only a little bit very much in love with.

Peter scuffs his boot against the cobbles and ducks his head. He can only barely get dressed in the mornings, effectively crippled by the lack of use of his finger. “No,” he mutters.

“Then it’s us or the cameramen,” Ruth says, in a tone that brooks no argument anyway. “Alex, go and find some clean clothes; I’ll heat the water; Peter, go and find the tub. You do know where it is, don’t you?” she teases, with a grin that makes his heart swoop.

“Yes, yes,” he grumbles good-naturedly to try and cover it up as Alex laughs his way upstairs. Too much of their stuff is upstairs, Peter thinks as he ducks into the gloom of the shed. At some point the crew is going to notice that the three of them keep sneaking back into the cottage after hours to occupy the safest, warmest bedroom, with candles and blankets like the Famous Five minus two and several years on, enthusing about how exciting all this is and how much of an adventure they’re having for what Peter persists in referring to as sleepovers, despite how much Alex insists that they’re doing Proper Science for the Cause of History and that the sleepovers are, in fact, not sleepovers but Important Research Meetings. Ruth calls them sleepovers too.

She’s also very good about it when he comes back into the kitchen rather sheepishly and notably without the tin bath and only laughs at him a little bit before telling him where it is.

When he returns with the tub - why they’re keeping it _behind,_ rather than _in_ the shed now he’ll never know - the pans are steaming on the range and Alex has, at Ruth’s direction, shoved the table right back so that the tub can sit in front of the warmth of the fire. A new set of clothes is piled up on the table and Ruth and Alex are murmuring quietly about ratios of hot to cold water and what would be most comfortable. Peter takes a long moment to stand silently in the doorway and watch. The image of caring domesticity before him, all period-garbed as they are, is so old and somehow true that Peter feels, more than usual, that he’s in a bubble of Edwardian time, that things move differently here - more slowly, perhaps - and that this: this house, these clothes, this time they’re reviving, is all true and real. That maybe he really is an Edwardian farmer, scrubbing up for church and living with the people he loves: his family. He almost wishes he had a camera, to capture this real, unscripted domestic life, but that would break it and return the false feeling. Besides, he thinks he only wants it for himself anyway; to remember that Ruth and Alex care enough to help him, because this really is above and beyond.

Peter accidentally knocks the tin bath against the door jamb and startles himself out of his reverie, blinking as Ruth and Alex turn to see him. “Alright in there?” Alex asks with a smile. “Zoning out?”

Peter shrugs, nods, offers an apologetic grin. He places the tin tub in front of the range and steps back as Ruth and Alex pour in the water at their approved ratio. “Kit off, then,” Ruth says matter-of-factly, not looking at him, and Peter suddenly remembers that yeah, this is happening.

He tugs awkwardly at his neckerchief, fingers suddenly fumbling and hesitant. _This is a bad idea,_ his brain tells him helpfully, and he’s inclined to agree. Has he been very terrible to any deities recently? Surely he doesn’t deserve the ordeal of being naked and washed by the two people in the world he has the worst, most terrible crushes on, more than he has had for anyone else, ever. Then his fingers brush against the somewhat horrendous scraggly beard he’s accidentally grown and he gets a whiff of his shirt and he gets over it.

Peter rips his shirt off and Alex laughs. “I think Peter just smelt himself,” he says, nudging Ruth with that easy familiarity that’s grown up between them. They know each other too well for people who aren’t in some way family and Peter adores it, even as he makes a face at Alex for being right.

Peter hops on one leg for a moment to yank off his boot and sock, before switching to the other one. “I hope you’ve got me another belt if you hate this one so much,” he says, flicking Alex with the tail of his rope belt to deflect from the fact that he really is about to stand naked before Alex and Ruth and let them wash and shave him.

“All has been arranged, Peter,” Alex says, in his charming, know-it-all way, and Peter huffs and removes the last of his clothes and steps quickly into the tub.

He sits down fast enough to almost slop the water right back out again and Ruth sweeps her skirts back, tutting through her teeth. “Sorry,” he offers, feeling more than slightly embarrassed, especially as the clear water has done nothing to disguise any of his nakedness.

“Worse than washing a dog, you are,” Ruth chides fondly, burying her fingers in his tangled curls as he huffs a laugh. “Hair first, and then Alex can shave you, alright?”

Peter leans slightly into the contact. “Alright,” he says, relaxing despite himself and letting his eyes fall shut. It’s Ruth and Alex; only Ruth and Alex. They’re safe people for him to be this exposed around, and they know he’s uncomfortable, and they’re trying to make it better for him. He’s filled with a wave of gratitude and he opens his eyes to gaze up at Ruth in what is, he’s sure, a very puppyish way, but one he hopes conveys his thanks.

Ruth smiles gently. “Just like a Labrador,” she says, ruffling his hair.

“Water an alright temperature, Peter?” Alex says, holding more water in a pan and a bucket. “We can do cold tap,” he says, lifting the bucket, “or hot tap,” grinning and holding up the pan.

Peter grins. “‘S lovely, thanks. Besides, don’t think I want you pouring boiling water on my legs.”

“You never let me do _anything,_ ” Alex says, passing Ruth the soap and kneeling beside the bath with a jug.

“I let you do lots of things,” Peter protests mildly, allowing Ruth to tip his head forward and trying not to think about how appealing Alex’s bared, wiry arms are, or how close Alex’s hand is as he fills the jug with bathwater. Because of the size of the tub - very small - Peter’s folded in it with his knees up and splinted finger carefully clear of the water, so the only place that Alex can scoop water is from between Peter’s legs, and isn't that sending his brain places it shouldn't go.

“Like what?” Alex says. His tone is even, but Peter’s known him too long not to notice the slight off-note, like Alex, too, is trying not to think about the very naked, very close Peter.

The warm water cascades over his head, soaking into his hair and running down his face. “Why, just yesterday I let you muck out the cow she- _ed_.” Peter is suddenly very distracted, leaning his whole body to his left, to increase the pressure of Ruth’s fingers against his scalp. She laughs gently, massaging more soap into his hair, nails scraping against his head until he almost feels like purring.

Alex laughs, delighted. “Oh my god,” he says. “He really is a puppy. D’you like that, Peter?”

“Mmmf,” Peter says eloquently, too busy revelling in the sensation to mind their laughter. Besides, they seem pleased, not mean, and Peter really, really does like this.

At some point, Peter has closed his eyes, but he hears something passed over his head, and then - oh. He hums happily, centring himself in the tub again so that the second set of hands, Alex’s, can have equal access to his head. Alex gets the hint and fingers that had been hesitant start to increase their pressure, working up the soap and reaching every inch of his head.

“Give him a scratch behind the ears, that’s it,” Ruth says and Peter can hear her grin and feel it replicated on his face. “There.”

The hands leave his head and Peter opens his eyes to grin, half-embarrassed at them. Ruth leans back on her heels, smiling, and smooths a hand over his soapy head. “Thanks,” Peter says.

“Just don’t go rolling in anything smelly,” Alex teases, scooping more water in his jug.

Unfortunately, this movement coincides with Peter remembering that he’s entirely naked - a fact he’d managed to ignore during the head massage - and so he awkwardly and abruptly shifts, knocks Alex’s hand, and slops a fair amount of the water on Ruth’s blouse. “Oops - sorry Ruth,” Peter says.

Ruth rolls her eyes and shrugs. “It was bound to get wet sooner or later, what with you boys being involved,” she says, unconcerned. She unbuttons the top few buttons and then, with one swift movement that fairly takes his breath away, crosses her arms and draws the shirt off over her head. She’s still decent by modern standards, more or less; a sort of vest and a corset, covering pretty much all of her chest, is far more than Peter’s girlfriends wore on nights out at uni, but-

He’s read too many bodice-rippers, is all, and he’s been attracted to her for a long time without ever seeing so much as her shoulders, and maybe he’s getting a little period about it all, but he has to put his head back down like he’s waiting for the jug to be emptied over his head. Peter can’t look at Ruth, just now, not when the thin, white, slightly damp cotton is _just_ sheer enough that he can see the dusky circles of her nipples through it and he’s so very naked that both she and Alex will _absolutely definitely know_ if he gets an erection right now.

The water from Alex’s jug is poured after a pause that is slightly too long to be natural, and Peter wonders if he’s noticed, too, and not for the first time considers that Alex and Ruth might be - interested in each other. They’re certainly well-suited; Peter loves to listen to them enthuse about something or another, be it history or a book they both read or a film Ruth thinks he ought to watch. Alex likes to bring her gifts, sometimes; a ribbon or some pretty wool from a fence or a flower he found. He brings Peter gifts too, but he’s been doing that since university and Peter’s not about to start reading things that aren’t there now. Peter thinks that he’d like it, if they did get together; he’d like to see them happy. His broken heart would mend, and it’s not like it’s a realistic outcome that _he_ wants.

But he really has been reading too many bodice rippers and he can’t help but indulge. In his fantasy he’s the lord of the estate, Ruth and Alex his tenant farmers - _bit more Victorian Farm than Edwardian, this,_ his historian brain points out, but Peter’s thinking with his cock at this point and dismisses the issue. He’s brought them in to wash him and care for him, to wait upon him hand and foot, and - no, that doesn’t sit right. Ruth as anything but entirely her own, independent woman is deeply unrealistic, and Peter wouldn’t know what to do with Alex under his command anyhow. So, instead, he’s - yes, he’s a farmhand, and the lord and lady have taken a shine to him and brought him in to clean him up and have their wicked way with him, because even in his fantasies Peter’s a bit grubby - part of the realism, and the feel of farming: dirt under his fingernails, ingrained in his soul. The Lady Ruth would wash his hair, whilst Lord Alex soaps him up into a lather, hands going lower and lower as Ruth’s corset strains-

Then Peter has to make his mind go very carefully blank, and he has to sit with his head between his knees as Ruth and Alex finish washing his hair and think about harvest time and crop rotation and shearing the sheep and not about kissing Ruth in the dairy, hands cool against his neck, or fucking Alex into the freshly-baled hay, or tangling together on piles of fleece with one hand up Ruth’s skirt and the other in Alex’s hair.

Peter breathes out shakily as the last jugful of water streams down his face, grateful for the soap suds on the surface of the water, the only thing now between him and two ruined friendships.

“There, now,” Ruth says. “Alex, d’you want to give him a shave?”

“Love to,” Alex says, and that odd step to his voice is back. God, Peter hopes they don’t know, can’t see his determined erection through the murky water.

Peter looks up to see Ruth place the milking stool behind his head and Alex sits, one gentle finger under Peter’s jaw tilting his head back until it’s resting on the lip of the bath. He fixes his gaze on the ceiling and swallows hard as Alex fusses with his shaving kit. “I’ve never seen a proper cut-throat razor shave,” Ruth says, leaning forward with interest and not a shred of self-consciousness. Peter focusses on staying very still.

“Well,” Alex says, slipping into lecturer mode without really knowing it, and making Ruth and Peter share a charmed smile. “You’ve got to get the face warm and wet - which we’ve done-”

“I don’t appreciate being called _the face_ ,” Peter says to make them laugh, feeling warm to his core when they do.

“If it makes you feel better, it’s a very nice face,” Ruth says. “If only we could find it under all that beard.”

That makes Peter feel all warm too, even though he makes a face for the beard comment. “ _Then,_ ” Alex says, pretending to be cross about the interruption, “you put on oil, and then cream.” Alex pours a little oil into his palm and rubs his hands together.

“Can I?” Ruth asks, reaching out, and Alex lets her swipe her palms over his. Peter loves watching them interact, so easy and familiar, and promises not to damage it by saying _anything_ about how he feels.

This becomes more difficult as four hands rub oil gently into his beard and skin. Alex’s hands are slow and sure, Ruth’s mimicking his movements, and Peter can pick out each and every point of contact burning into his skin. He can tell which hand belongs to whom by the callouses, the size, the warmth; Ruth always has cold hands, skin chapped from laundry, and Peter always wants to _do_ something about that, even if it is just kissing her sores. Alex’s hands are bigger, tougher, worn from shovels and reins and in one spot on his middle finger from how he holds a pen. Peter's been a little obsessed with them since second year, eager for contact. The deft fingers of his friends skate over his skin, dancing to his mouth, near enough to kiss, before sliding away again, and Peter focusses his eyes on the ceiling and not the intent faces he knows and loves so well, so near and yet out of reach. The slow, steady massage is wonderful and Peter spares a moment to be grateful; Alex is probably making it slow for his benefit, knowing how much he enjoyed the hair-washing. He smiles under their hands with love for them.

“Happy?” Ruth says, rubbing her thumb against the corner of his smile.

“Mm-hmm.”

“We’ll book you in for a full-body Thai massage in September,” Alex teases, and Peter is very careful to bite back the offer that the two of them give him one now, upstairs, on the bed where they had their sleepovers and Peter fell properly, absolutely, head over heels in love with them.

“Cream next, right?” Ruth says, and Alex nods. The bristles are oddly soft-spiky against his skin; not unpleasant, but nothing on the skin contact he’d been treated to before.

“And then,” Alex says, stropping the razor deftly, “we shave.”

Alex leans over, Peter leans back; Alex’s fingers fix themselves on Peter’s jaw, pulling his skin taut, and the blade touches his face. The strokes are slow and careful, ever so light and gentle but still managing to cut the hairs cleanly. Peter stays ever so still, head between Alex’s knees and so close to his face, with a half-dressed Ruth leaning in and watching with her avid attention. Peter finds himself, rather than embarrassed, even more aroused by their attention; being the focus of their care and thought and intent makes his brain go places not conducive to good friendliness. The vulnerability, too, begets intimacy. Alex holds Peter’s life in his hands and he is quite literally entirely bared before them, naked but for the bandage on his finger.

“Can I have a go?” Ruth says quietly.

Alex shuffles back, giving her space to sit in front of him on the stool, and hands her the razor. She places the cool edge against his skin, and Alex says, “No, there,” as he minutely corrects the angle by placing his large hand over hers. Ruth glides the blade down his cheek, cleans the razor, moves her hand and Alex’s together to shave his upper lip. They’re both close, so close that it would be nothing to kiss their fingers, and Peter’s breath comes out shaky against their fingertips. Together, Ruth and Alex shave his neck, both their faces above him and gazing down in avid concentration, Alex’s chest pressed against Ruth’s back. Their fingers press, hot-cold, against his racing pulse and Peter can’t help a tiny, whimpering moan slipping out into the still, quiet air.

There is a pause, in which Peter’s worldly happiness comes crashing down about him. He’s done it. He’s ruined _everything,_ they know that he’s _in love_ with them and it’ll be weird and they’ll never work with him again-

And then Alex makes a little stifled hum and shifts back on his chair, almost falling off the back of the stool in an effort to _not_ press his hips against Ruth, and Peter recognises that gesture. He remembers it from a dig way back when, when one of the others had bought a motorbike and Alex had been forced to awkwardly bend away to avoid shoving his semi into the small of the girl he liked’s back. Peter had laughed at him about it for hours. He’s not sure what to do about it now.

And then Ruth hums in an interested way, as if she’s just found something new of note in a primary source, or found a new recipe in Mrs Beeton, and shifts back herself to deliberately press her hips into Alex’s groin. And then keeps shaving, like nothing unusual is happening.

Peter can hardly breathe. They’ve not been horrified with him, after all, but he can’t quite believe that what he thinks is happening is actually happening. Because it certainly _seems_ like Alex and Ruth are also _interested_ by the whole shaving/bathing thing, and are _interested_ in both each other and _him_ , which is the bit that’s losing him most, honestly. Peter can see Alex’s own disbelief where he leans over Ruth’s shoulder but Ruth is remarkably calm - which, thinking about it, oughtn’t surprise him at all. But this whole situation has been rather surprising, so Peter just keeps terribly still and waits for the rug to be pulled out from beneath him.

Ruth finishes the last slide of the razor and scoops water from Peter’s chest to wash his face, letting her fingers trail over his chest and cheeks in hot, burning lines. When she’s done, she nudges Alex back and guides them both to stand either side of Peter. Alex, following Ruth’s lead, takes Peter’s forearm and helps him to his feet - which Peter does, because he can see, and so can Ruth, the rather obvious tenting of Alex’s trousers. It makes him feel slightly less self-conscious about his own straining erection.

Twin exhales come from either side of him, but Peter looks straight ahead, fixing his eyes on the stove and not on their reactions, which he can’t even hope to predict. He does, though, see Ruth hand Alex a flannel and sliver of soap, and it’s his own turn to breathe out, shaky and slow, as wet, soapy cloths run gently and slowly over his bare skin. He can barely muscle up a sensible thought; his whole being is full of hesitant but burning desire. Ruth and Alex start at his shoulders, gliding down his arms and scrubbing his armpits, then slowly down his chest and stomach. He’s not proud, exactly, of his physique, but it’s hardly bad either; Peter’s muscles are more solid than toned and encased in evidence of how much he enjoys Ruth’s dinners, but if the care and almost reverence with which Ruth and Alex wipe down his flanks are anything to go by, they don’t mind it much.

On an upswipe, Alex’s flannel runs coarse over Peter’s nipple and he flinches slightly with a short, sharp inhalation, cock twitching against his belly. Alex shares a mischievous, interested look with Ruth. “I’ll remember that,” he says, light and teasing but laden with promise, and Peter realises he’s built this all up in his head too much - this is Ruth and Alex, just Ruth and Alex, and he loves them.

Peter grins, reaching out to cop a quick, swiping feel of the bulge in Alex’s trousers. He yelps and dances back and Ruth tips her head back and laughs. Peter gives in to temptation and pulls out the pins holding her bun back, watching the thin curtain of copper catch the light and float to her back.

“Wait,” Peter says, noticing something else. “That’s not your hair.”

Ruth laughs, reaching up and unpinning the wreath of alien dark plaits like a crown on her head. “No, it’s not. How did you think I made my hair so big?”

Peter shrugs. “I just thought it looked nice,” Alex adds as Ruth tosses the plaits onto the table.

“Daft boys,” she says fondly, soaping up Peter’s hip.

“Is that period, then?” Peter says, because he’s still a massive history nerd.

“Oh yeah,” Ruth says, kneeling and cleaning his thigh.

“Is this?” Alex says, grinning, and gestures to their positions.

“Your garter’s come untied, my love, fol-der-o diddle-o-day,” Ruth sings, mischievous, as she rubs her thumbs along the inside of his thigh.

Peter laughs. “Well, since you’ve been so venturesome, pray tie it up for me,” he sings back.

“While tying of his garter such sights I never did see,” Alex says and Peter fails to not laugh at his not-singing.

Peter likes this bit of their shared bathtime, too, but by the end they’ve touched every damn inch of him _except_ the part most throbbing for their attention. He can’t even bite back a needy whine when Alex carefully washes the creases of his thighs - careful, that is, to avoid touching his aching cock. Alex just laughs and pats his hip, and Peter closes his eyes to breathe slowly.

It is, therefore, a complete surprise when soft lips press against his own, in a needy, searching kiss. He knows, though, right away that it’s Ruth: the downward angle, the skirts swishing against his legs, the breasts pressed insistently to his damp chest and the boned corset finally giving his cock something hard to press against. His eyes startle open, before fluttering closed again as he reciprocates her desperate pressure, hands landing naturally on her hips and pulling her more tightly flush against him. Ruth hums happily into his mouth and Alex exhales heavily to his right. Something delights within Peter, finally feeling that this might be real.

He and Ruth part, reaching as one to pull Alex to them. Peter watches Ruth and Alex kiss, almost painfully hard but aware that if he even thinks of touching himself he’ll come right there and then and god, does he want to make this last; and then he notices that Ruth has pushed herself up on her toes and it’s so adorable that he could die of happiness.

Peter wraps his arms around them both, his hands broad enough to encompass their hip bones and strong enough to support Ruth’s little reach. She beams at him and he is helpless but to return it. The sight apparently affects Alex, who makes a little whining noise and surges forward to kiss Peter, all new but oddly familiar, as if he’s known Alex long enough not to be surprised by this new side of their relationship. It feels - good. Like coming home. Like he should be here, holding and being held, kissing and being kissed.

But this easy comfort vanishes quickly, eaten up by urgency when Ruth wraps her firm, chapped fingers around Peter’s cock and making him gasp into Alex’s mouth. She laughs and Peter, in revenge, gives her a driving kiss and lets himself finally, gently, cup her breast in his hand, thumbing over her nipple and making her gasp in turn. Alex turns his attention to kissing Ruth’s neck, then Peter’s, until they’re all breathing heavily. “You’re all too dressed,” Peter breathes. “And my ankles are getting cold.”

Alex grins and offers Peter an arm to support his step out of the tub, like he’s some fancy lady. Appropriately, Peter sticks his nose in the air and points his toes delicately, feet curling against the cold of the flagstones, and Ruth laughs. Peter could, he finds, spend the rest of his life in perfect content if he could only make Ruth and Alex laugh, bright and often.

Alex grabs the neck of his shirt and hauls it off, immediately stepping back in for more kisses, but Peter and Ruth each place a hand on a shoulder and hold him back. “Let’s be having a look at you, then,” Ruth says, voice low and proprietary in a way that seems to be having a similar effect on Alex and Peter both.

Alex huffs and shifts on his feet awkwardly, but allows Ruth and Peter to look him over, as Peter has pretty much always wanted to do: with a view to touching. Alex is well-toned from the farmwork and fresh air, wiry and lean where Peter is more - solid. His skin is pale, though not nearly so flour-white as Ruth’s, and speckled with freckles. Peter wants to map each one with his tongue, run his fingers over every inch.

Ruth seems of similar view, dragging him towards her to smooth her palms down his bare chest and setting Alex to trembling as she kisses him, fierce and filthy. Peter steps behind him, snaking his arms around Alex’s hips and sliding flat palms between Ruth's and Alex’s hips, chin hooked over Alex's shoulder to watch them kiss. He manages to undo Alex's belt, each curl of his fingers against Ruth's pelvis making her hum or moan into Alex's mouth.

Alex breaks off the kiss, leaning his forehead against Ruth's temple and breathing heavily, as Peter hooks his thumbs into Alex's waistband. “Okay?” Peter asks, suddenly nervous. What if he's going too far, too fast - what if this is all an elaborate prank, or Ruth and Alex are too kind to ask him to shove off, or-

“Okay,” Alex says quickly. “Really okay - pretty bloody brilliant, actually,” and Peter can breathe again. Ruth grins, reaching around to stroke her palm down Peter's arm in a move he recognises from talking to the often skittish horses, and he gives her a grateful smile. Ruth's like an anchor, or a lighthouse, or a port in a storm, or something - very dependable, and steadying, is our Ruth. “It's just,” Alex says, “I don't really know where this is going.”

“Sex, I'd have thought,” Ruth says bluntly, fingers curling idly against their skin so that even this conversation feels like continuing foreplay. Peter shivers at the out-loud confirmation.

“We don't have condoms. Or lube,” Alex says, volume dropping on those key words, and Peter has to bury his giggles in Alex's shoulder. “Period or otherwise,” he continues, reaching back to pinch Peter's thigh in revenge for the laughter.

“I'm not putting an intestine on my cock,” Peter says firmly. “Fairly sure the Beeb aren't going to want this bit on camera anyway.”

Ruth pouts, feigning disappointment. “Don't you want to see if it works?”

“Bit high stakes,” Alex points out and she laughs.

“Fair enough. Well, for now I suppose we'll have to make do without,” Ruth says, grinning wickedly at the pair of them. Alex's eyes shutter closed with a groan and Peter presses his hips more snugly against his back, pressing a sucking kiss to the hinge of his jaw.

He pulls back, even as Alex whines at his loss. “Table, Ruth?” he says, sweeping her up into his arms, bridal style, before she has a chance to read his intent.

She treats him to an adorable surprised laugh that has him and Alex beaming. “Big strong lout,” she says fondly, fitting her head under his chin and setting her fingers to idly stroking his chest. Something very, very basic in Peter goes all warm and delighted and his back straightens as he carries her over to the table.

“He's gone all caveman at that,” Alex laughs as Peter places Ruth on the table’s edge. “He'll be dragging meat home next and-”

The rest of what Alex has to say is lost to a yelp and then breathless laughter as Peter stalks back to him, grabs him about the knees and lifts, Alex flopping like a sack of potatoes over Peter's shoulder. He carries Alex back to Ruth, presenting his upside-down face to her for a kiss when she reaches out for one, and then puts Alex down. Alex, fighting a grin, punches him lightly in the arm and treats him to a seeking, filthy kiss that leaves them both breathless.

“Come on, chaps, at least where I can watch,” Ruth says, running her ankle up and down Peter's thigh. Alex swallows hard and Peter can see he's not the only one who's been given _ideas_ by that.

Peter turns in the loose circle of Alex's arms and steps them both closer to Ruth, half-reclined on the table and legs spread for them to stand between, and leans down to kiss her. He tries to imitate the kiss Alex had given him, driving and dirty, and Ruth hums appreciatively. He's somewhat distracted from his task, however, when Alex presses the hard, hot line of his cock against the cleft of his arse, and he moans against Ruth's tongue. It's promising and faintly possessive and _very_ good but also really quite a lot, just now. “You remember that conversation we had about lube and us not having any,” his self-preservation forces him to rather breathlessly say, even as a large part of him screams that he _wants it very bloody badly anyway._

“I do,” Alex says, pressing chaste kisses to Peter's shoulder until his heart rate has calmed down a bit. “I wouldn't ever hurt you, Peter.”

Peter grabs Alex's hand and presses a kiss to it in a little _I know and I love you_ gesture and Ruth smiles fondly at them both, smoothing an errant damp curl from Peter's eyes. “There's a bottle of oil on the shelf,” she says. “Might do for between his thighs.”

The matter-of-fact statement of intent has Peter practically swooning between them. Alex kisses Peter's pulse point, running a promise-laden palm down his abdomen and hip that has him trembling. “How do you know so much about everything,” he says, pretending to grumble as he finds the bottle.

Ruth swings her legs, tipping her head back to smile smugly at them. “Just that good,” she says, shrugging.

“You are,” Peter blurts out - and this is an odd time to say it, naked in the kitchen and mid-fuck, but he can't really _not_ say it - and fights his blush. “Both of you, you're both - _wonderful._ ”

Alex and Ruth exchange entirely charmed looks, like their hearts are melting, and Peter goes red to the roots of his hair. Ruth leans in to kiss him as Alex returns, warm weight flush against Peter's back.

There's a rusting around Ruth's knees and she breaks off the kiss. “No, there's- The petticoat, too-”

“Edwardian women wear too many skirts,” Alex says, finally managing to bare Ruth's soft, pale skin, and Peter ducks his head, grinning.

Peter runs a hand down her thigh reverently and she shivers. “Part of encouraging abstinence,” he suggests.

“Hasn't bloody worked,” Ruth says with a wicked grin and no small amount of triumph, hooking one ankle around them both as far as she can. Alex presses his bright, brilliant grin into Peter's shoulder, and Peter closes his eyes to lean their heads together and smile.

Then he and Ruth are gasping together, because Alex has set his clever hands to multiple tasks at once. Peter's eyes startle open as the slick, blunt head of Alex's cock slides between his thighs, in time to see Ruth instinctively rock her hips into the hand that has snaked its way inside the last of her underclothes. It's quite beautiful, in an oh-so-hard-it-hurts way.

“Everyone alright?” Alex says, somewhat smug.

Peter can't even be cross with him for it, pressing his hips back. “Yes, yes, god, Alex-”

“Please,” Ruth says, ruffled and breathy.

Alex seems to enjoy that as much as Peter does, groaning and moving his hips in small, slow thrusts. Peter can see the muscles in Alex's forearm moving in time with the rocks Ruth has set herself to, syncing up perfectly with him and Alex. He cants his hips back again and Alex gets the hint, picking up the pace, and Peter curves his spine and licks a long stripe over the curve of Ruth's breast.

Ruth's head tips back to give him better access. “Oh, god,” Alex says, and Ruth's hand comes up, cupping the back of Peter's head against her as he licks and kisses the pale, lightly freckled skin.

Ruth's fingers entangle in his wild curls, idly pressing and tugging gently. He'd bet that she doesn't even really know she's doing it, but the attention makes Peter moan against her nipple. Ruth lets out a long, breathless moan of her own, Alex muffles an oath against Peter's shoulder and speeds up his movements again. A movement, an angle - something of Alex's coincides with an almost bruising kiss of Peter's against the thin skin of her chest and Ruth shudders and shakes and cries out, and Peter wedges his arm behind her to keep her more-or-less upright in her boneless slump.

“Alright?” Alex asks gently when she opens her eyes again.

Ruth grins. “I'd say so, yeah. Come on, then.”

Alex presses his own grin into the side of Peter's face and starts to move his hips again and that, combined with Ruth's clever strong fingers wrapped around his cock and the head of Alex's cock just nudging his perineum, is enough to do it for Peter, too. He's fairly sure that it was embarrassingly fast and shamefully loud, but Ruth's grinning at him and playing with his hair, and Alex is trembling behind him, and Peter really doesn't care.

He reaches behind him and grabs one of Alex's hands. “Aren't you gonna-”

“Do you mind?” Alex asks, voice rather strained.

“At this point you damn well better,” Peter says rather firmly and Ruth grins.

“Rude to assume, love,” Alex says, and Peter could fight armies in defence of that pet name. Alex starts up his thrusts again and Peter revels in the almost rough slide of their bodies together, the sweet burn between his legs. He pulls Alex's hand up to his mouth, pressing a wet kiss to the heel and making Alex's hips stutter. Ruth seems to like the idea, meeting his kiss on the other side until they're kissing through and around Alex's fingers and Alex is whining breathlessly with each thrust. Peter licks a stripe up Alex's index finger and, as Ruth laves attention on the knuckle, sucks the digit into his mouth in one wet slide.

Alex swears, snapping his hips erratically before coming in hot stripes between Peter's legs and abruptly slumping and crushing the three of them into a pile on the table.

There's a moment of silence, and then Ruth laughs. Peter giggles into the crook of her neck and she gives their sides a gentle slap. “God, you great lumps, I can't breathe!”

“Mmf,” Alex says, making no effort to move just yet.

Peter shifts, getting his elbows under him and pushing his and Alex's weight off Ruth's chest. “Better?”

She smiles fondly at him. “My big strong boy,” she says, stroking through his hair until he is helpless but to return her smile. Alex hooks his chin over Peter's shoulder and treats them both to a lazy grin. “Ah, there's my other one,” Ruth says happily.

Alex pulls a face. “I think she likes you better, Peter.”

“I like you both just the same,” Ruth corrects firmly.

Peter giggles again, rather uncontrollably. “We've broken him,” Alex says, mock-mournful, when Peter entirely fails to explain himself.

“We were getting ready for _church_ ,” Peter finally chokes out.

“Trying to get you clean,” Alex laughs.

“ _And_ I'm going to have to scrub this table,” Ruth says, mirth winning out over annoyance. Then her face becomes solemn and she sets her hands on Peter's biceps, taking a deep breath. “Boys,” she says, and her voice has that strong, firm, uncertain tone it gets when she's about to talk to them about something real. “I don't just want to fool around; I'm too old, or something. This has to matter to you, too, and be something you're interested in pursuing, or I don't think I can do it again.”

Peter was always taught to let people finish and not interrupt, so he does - even though he's been dying to reply basically since she began. “Yes,” he therefore says immediately. “Yes, I want this - so much.”

“Me too,” Alex says, just as eager and certain, and something in Ruth relaxes and she smiles again.

“Good,” she pronounces. “You boys are too irresistible, you know, with your ploughing and glistening muscles and such.”

And what can Alex and Peter do at that, but look at each other in disbelief of their good fortune and then press kiss upon kiss to Ruth's laughing face.

It can't last, though. Peter's arms are trembling from the effort of supporting the weight of himself and Alex and they've got to clean up and eat before the crew arrive. Much as Peter would like to remain cocooned between them, the farm waits for no man.

Alex gets to his feet, letting Peter stand up straight and Ruth sit up. He finds a wet flannel and wipes himself and Peter down, quick but careful. Ruth, rather smugly, flicks her skirts down and pulls on her blouse and is mostly dressed before Alex has even found his shirt.

“You're sorting lunch, then,” Alex says, and Ruth grins.

“Pass my church-approved clothes,” Peter says as Ruth begins pinning the hair that isn't her own to her head. Alex lobs him some underwear and a pair of trousers that he recognises as his spare-spare, only to be worn for special occasions on pain of terrible retribution from the costume lady. “If I rip these I'm blaming you,” he says, pointing accusingly at Alex as he pulls them on.

“Take 'em off as soon as you get back on the farm,” Alex instructs.

“Promises, promises,” Ruth says, voice low and mischievous as she twists up her hair to reveal the pale line of her neck. Peter reaches out hesitantly and runs a finger down the soft skin there, feeling her shiver beneath his hand. “What's that for, now?”

Peter shrugs. “Sort of - always wanted to. Soft. Sorry.” He shuffles his feet, all awkward adoration.

Ruth steps in close and up on tiptoes and kisses him, chaste and sweet. “That's alright,” she says, smiling.

“What’ve you always wanted to do to me?” Alex asks, grinning.

“Thump you,” Peter replies immediately, and Alex laughs and throws the shirt so it lands on Peter's head. Ruth retreats to the larder, ducking the sock that Peter throws back.

“I'm afraid you've ruined all your shirts, Peter,” Alex says, when they've quite finished. “I've loaned you one of mine, so don't destroy it.”

Peter frowns, shifting the soft clean cotton between his fingertips. “Are you sure it'll fit? I am something of a great big lump.”

“Nonsense! You're a lovely-shaped lump,” Alex says firmly.

“Hear, hear,” Ruth adds, voice echoing off the larder walls.

Peter grins, ducking his head to hide his blush. “I was - I was being pragmatic there, chaps, not self-deprecating, but thanks all the same.”

“You were contriving to do both, dear,” Ruth says, carrying out bread and ham and cheese.

“And it'll fit,” Alex says, dragging the table back to its usual spot with a screech that makes Peter wince and Ruth tut over her floor.

The shirt, unsurprisingly, doesn't fit that well. Well enough, especially after Peter's given up on the top few buttons and put on his waistcoat, but not well. It's sort of...nice, though, to have something of Alex's close to his skin and smelling pleasantly of hay and laundry soap and something... _Alex-y._ Peter's not that great with smells, to be honest. But it's nice. “Where's my wonderful new belt, then?” Peter says. “And I ought to have a neckerchief, shouldn't I?”

“You're very demanding,” Alex huffs, feigning displeasure as he gets up and fusses in his coat pocket.

“I'm firing you as my valet,” Peter warns, even as he comes back with a coil of leather in his hands.

Alex rolls his eyes. “Arms up.” Peter obliges, and Alex wraps his arms about Peter's waist to thread the new belt. “This is really a present from the BBC, but you can thank me anyway.” Alex smiles winningly and Peter leans in, kissing him slowly and languidly. “You're welcome,” Alex says, breathlessly, and Peter laughs, turning to sit with Ruth at the table.

“I note you haven't solved the neckerchief problem, though,” Ruth says, already half-chiding. Alex shrugs as he sits, grinning an apology, and Ruth sighs fondly. She pushes the loaf of bread at him as he sits so that Alex can finish slicing and stands, rummaging in her basket of fabric oddments and wool.

“Ooh, are you going to knit me a scarf?” Peter asks, grinning.

“I haven't finished your socks, yet,” Ruth laughs. “I'm not knocking up a whole scarf over lunch. Here.” She returns to the table with a slightly irregular square of green fabric that looks like an offcut from her skirt, twisting it neatly and wrapping it around his neck. Peter lifts his chin and she ties it carefully. The knot presses pleasantly against his pulse point and she kisses the corner of his smile.

It's nice to have a bit of Ruth with him too, slightly and subtly matching in a totally explicable way. The curl of the fabric feels faintly possessive, as well, and Peter finds he likes nothing better than to be theirs.

Lunch is refreshingly pleasantly normal. They eat sandwiches and bicker about why Ruth can cut neat slices but Alex can only cut doorstops, and bemoan the state of the hedge in the top field and the ditching it'll need come winter, just like they always do. But now, their feet tangle together under the table, affectionately knocking ankles or brushing insteps and laughing when that last one makes Peter jump and recoil and bump his knee on the underside of the table.

“I have sensitive feet,” he whines, trying not to laugh.

After lunch Alex jogs off on a quick check of the farm - the less they have to shamefacedly collect their animals from their neighbours’ gardens after some time away, the better - and Peter and Ruth clear up the kitchen. She scrubs the table with salt, strong arms hard at work - and who can think Ruth has it easy!

“D’you want a hand?”

Ruth looks up at him with a smile. “Are you just now realising that my jobs are hard work too?”

“Not _just now_ ,” Peter protests. “Only - that looks tough, and all I'm going to do is rinse the bath.”

Ruth grins. “Go and rinse the bath, love.”

Peter hauls the tub out and sluices the water down the gutter, washing away dirt and a few errant leaves. He does, it must be said, feel better for his wash - and not just because of the Ruth and Alex consequence. It's nice to feel clean, properly, for the first time in a while and not smell of sheep. Or feel like one, he thinks, running a hand over his smooth face and remembering the hands, the touch, the-

Peter gets some rainwater out of the waterbutt and rinses the tub, flicking some at his own face. He's just standing the bath up to drip dry - maybe that's why they're keeping it outside the shed now - when the crew hove into view.

“Hello Peter,” the producer calls with a wave. Peter waves back, although really he'd like nothing better than for the cameras to go away so that he can get properly Edwardian about it all. “You're looking smart.”

Peter sticks his arms out and turns for their approval, to a couple of wolf whistles. “Ruth and Alex stuck my head under a tap.”

Ruth has heard the commotion and laughs as she walks over, standing easily at Peter's shoulder. “Alex will only be a minute - ready to go to the church?”

They all trog downhill together. Alex talks to the producer about what they’re up to next week and what they might want to film and did he want a shot of them mending the shaky dining chairs - Peter assumes that the results of all this will be relayed to him later. Ruth’s gossiping with one of the camera operators; he catches the odd word about their planned finale, which Peter doesn’t want to think about, but also something about their having a weekend on the farm to themselves, if it can be wrangled. Peter just stuffs his hands in the pockets of his good trousers and tries not to draw attention to himself, because he’s fairly sure that he can’t stop sending adoring glances at Alex and Ruth and he’s not quite ready to confront that publicly. It’s not mentioned, though, so either Peter’s doing a really good job or he’s been gazing at them like they hung the moon and stars since _Tales From The Green Valley,_ day one. The latter is frankly much more likely.

The service is - interesting. Peter’s used, by now, to the distinctly hellfire-and-brimstone style of preaching, and in the past it’s either not bothered him a bit or Ruth’s had to pinch him to stop him giggling at the more extreme segments. But it’s something about today; no Easter festivity to make this feel like a special occasion, no Christmas dinner to look forward to, just a normal Sunday. Or perhaps it’s how in-character he’s feeling, and he’s been an Edwardian farmer too long for this not to have some kind of effect on him.

“Do ye not know that the saints shall judge the world?” the priest exhorts, and Peter lets his mind wander. The pleasant aching burn is still sitting between his legs, a warm reminder of what Alex and Ruth are to him now, and he’s fairly sure Ruth has left him a rather impressive hickey just under his collarbone - he can certainly feel something when Alex’s shirt brushes against it. He’s also fairly sure that the three of them are sitting closer together than usual, and than the pew size strictly requires; Peter would only have to shift slightly to bump shoulders with Ruth, and there’s barely an inch between Alex’s thigh and Ruth’s. Peter’s blood sings with it, warming him to his core to be near them.

The preacher slams his palm down on the pulpit and Peter startles back into attention, ignoring Ruth’s stifled smile at his response. “Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived,” they are warned, “neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.” It’s one hell of a laundry list of sin, and the congregation are fixed with a shaming eyeball. “Let us pray,” the preacher intones.

Peter bows his head. He really is getting a bit period about it all - he’s not even sure he really believes - but there’s something about being harangued in King James, wearing an outfit put together by your two lovers, with a hickey on your clavicle and a friction burn hot and shameful between your legs, that makes you take the rhetoric that is violently against your behaviour a little more personally. Peter’s fingers twist together until his knuckles are white and painful and a burning flush creeps up the back of his neck. He’s never been explicitly told he’s going to hell before, though he’s also never put much effort into going the other way, and after almost a whole year of being a proper Edwardian, the habit he’s made of taking this seriously is rather hard to shake.

He moves his hands wrong and his broken finger screams in agony; it’s all he can do to reduce his outcry to just a sharp inhale. Peter shifts, putting a hand either side of him and digging his fingernails into the wooden pew rather than his own skin. If he cared to, he would notice that his arms are trembling ever so slightly, but he definitely notices the hot coil of shame in his belly. Peter’s so absolutely in love with Alex and Ruth, and he’s been taught from a young age that he needn’t be ashamed of love, and he’s trying really hard to remember that right now - to hold onto the idea that’s slipping away from him like sand through his fingers. It’s not that he doesn’t love them anymore, just that the feeling now comes with a white-hot iron rod of shame, lancing through the general euphoria and bonhomie Peter had felt before entering the church. He doesn’t want to be told that he’s wrong to be happier than he’s ever been. It doesn’t seem fair.

They stand and Peter stumbles through the hymn, even less able than usual to follow the words, rhythm and tune all at once. But when they sit back down, Ruth flicks her skirts out slightly and her little powerful fingers wrap around his white-knuckled grip on the pew under the safe calico haven. Peter twists his wrist to entwine their fingers together, like her hands alone can hold back the vitriol and the fear, and clings to her like a lifeline. A quick glance to his right shows Alex’s hand similarly concealed and a rather fixed expression on his face; Alex, the lifelong church boy, and Peter is so sorry for him that he could confront the preacher entirely unsupported if he didn’t know that Alex would hate it beyond all else. He sort of sees how Ruth can be so calm, though: Peter would crusade against crusaders and punch the Pope in their defence, and realising this is making him feel a bit better about the whole going-straight-to-hell thing.

A bit.

The crew have the footage they need, and wave them off with the promise of a few days to themselves, if they’re good and don’t do anything too exciting off-camera. “And no more breaking fingers,” the producer says, grinning.

Peter still feels a bit quiet, but he manages a good enough put-upon huff to make the others laugh. “I don’t remember it being his idea to play football,” Ruth points out, smiling.

“You’d never have guessed,” Alex teases, and Peter rolls his eyes.

They set off up the lane back to the farm and Ruth hooks her arms into theirs: an acceptable form of affection for a possibly-watching camera crew. Their walk is silent, pressed into each others’ sides in solidarity against the world, but Peter can’t quite shake the shame that keeps his eyes fixed on his boots.

After they’ve curved around two winds in the lane, Alex clears his throat. “Corinthians. That was the bit he read.”

“Alex,” Ruth begins softly, but he carries on.

“The bit he didn’t read runs _but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, and ye are justified in the name of our Lord Jesus._ And I don’t know about you, Ruth,” he says, and Peter finally manages to drag his feet off the road and onto the faces he loves so well, “but I think we gave Peter a pretty good wash this morning, so I should say we were sanctified and justified and all that, wouldn’t you?”

Ruth smiles, soft and a little sad. “I should say so, my love.”

The pair of them look almost warily at Peter, waiting for his response. The situation is so daft that all he can do is let out a little gasping, sobbing laugh and crush them both close to him in an extremely disorganised hug. “Should’ve been making you feel better,” he mumbles into Alex’s hair. “How’d we get all wrong-way-round?”

Alex chuckles, all relief and pent-up emotion. “I’ve had years of practise with this sort of thing, Peter.”

“Darling,” Ruth says firmly, “that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. And I think that I want today - when Peter’s stopped crushing me with his affection - to be happy, rather than somewhat tragic, so wipe your eyes and give me a kiss and we’ll have Edwardian buns for tea.”

Peter lets them go so that he can scrub the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until he’s put out the burning there that threatens tears and gives them both a bright sunny smile. “Yes, milady, as you command,” he says, and Ruth’s laughing when Peter and Alex press their kisses to her smile, three people happy together under not-quite-Edwardian skies.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm never going to be able to look my Actual History Lecturer, Alex Langlands, in the eye, ever again.
> 
> Songs mentioned: The Ups and Downs, Saucy Sailor, both Steeleye Span.


End file.
